


Revenge is the Law of the Outlaws

by TigerLord



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF John, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Organized Crime, Plotty, Revenge, Slow Build, mentor Jim, mob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4005136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerLord/pseuds/TigerLord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is the son of a famous mob boss duo until an altercation with intelligence agencies kills them. Ten years later, John is determined to track down and kill those responsible for his parents' deaths under his mentor and godfather, Jim Moriarty. He goes to assassinate Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes but is unwittingly captured. Now life just got even messier as he discovers truths he didn't want to know and feelings for one of his captors he didn't realize he could have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Sour Mission

**Author's Note:**

> This will be my very first story, which in extension means that this is my very first Sherlock/John story. 
> 
> There will be some depictions of violence but that will happen in the later chapters. 
> 
> I don't have a beta so I apologize in advance for any mistakes that you might come across
> 
> The title is borrowed from Laura Blumenfeld

Chapter One—A Sour Mission

“Cameras are located here and here,” Irene Adler informed John Watson, pointing to the different areas of the street that lead to the apartment that currently housed Sherlock Holmes.

They both sat in Caedis’s head office with Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran as John received his newest mission. Caedis was one of the largest and oldest crime organizations in London that had been established almost three hundred years ago when the colonies in America had started to flourish by themselves. When America revolted, Caedis, which stood for corruption, assassination, espionage, disunity, imperialism, and slaughter, grew through illegal trade, fraud, and murders. It now dominated the underground.

It really had become quite the organized crime business. Caedis monitored all drug transactions, especially the illegal ones, they had sold people to modern day slavery in developing nations, and had sold weapons to anyone who would pay for them. What set them apart from other organized crime was that they also specialized in assassinating and killing people. When hired or antagonized, Caedis agents could and would kill anyone, anywhere for various reasons. Whether those reasons were blackmail, revenge, or to get rid of a politician, as long as the person could foot the bill, Caedis accepted them as clients and finished the mission. This meant that Caedis’s annual income was enormous. This also meant that John had lived a very comfortable childhood as his parents had both brought in a very hefty salary each year.

The current family in power was John’s, technically. The Watsons had been the leaders of Caedis for generations now and John was technically the leader of Caedis. But it was Jim Moriarty would come in as a sort of regent to John until John gained his training and knowledge of the clan. Afterwards, Jim would step aside and let John continue the unbroken reign of the Watsons. Lately though, it appeared that Jim didn’t want to step aside just yet. He seemed to be enjoying being the one calling the shots. It was starting to seem that John would only take his place as the next head of Caedis after his godfather Jim Moriarty passed away, got executed, or retired.

But John wasn’t perturbed by this. He knew Jim was doing a great job running the clan and that profits and missions and clients had been at an all time high. Jim was doing a much better job at keeping things from falling apart than what John though he could do. Sure, being an alpha was in his blood but he was still nervous he’d ruin the clan’s legacy.

John had entered training at the age of fifteen years and had started his missions around the age of sixteen. He was good. Really good. He knew how to kill men with his bare hands and make it looked like an accident, he knew how to disable a gun and reassemble it in record time as well as shoot the gun with precise accuracy, hitting the bulls-eye every time. He could also throw knives and beat anyone in hand-to-hand combat every time, mastering those skills very early on in his training. He had yet to fail at a mission. So far, he had fourteen kills and he was only twenty-five years old. Still extremely young and nimble.  

“Your best route in will be through the front door since Holmes’s landlady is out for the night.” Irene continued, flashing through pictures on her laptop. John ran a hand through his hair, considering the information he had just received carefully a burning rage in his stomach.

He had finally been given his chance to get his revenge on the Holmes Family. Ten years ago they had killed his parents in a huge altercation on Putney Bridge. He remembered it vividly—or at least the news headlines from the next day that declared over fifty people dead from both the intelligence and mob side combined. Usually his parents didn’t leave him and his sister alone for the night. All mafia business would either wait for the morning or be conducted through disposable cell phones. But this time had been different. He remembered being fifteen when Sebastian Moran, one of his fathers’ bodyguards told to watch over him and Harry. He and Harry had waited all night for their parents to return but they never did.

It was close to dawn when close family friend and his father’s second in command, Jim Moriarty, walked in and briefed the two of them of what had happened in the past few hours. His mother and father had gone to the bridge because the weapons they were exporting to Russia had gotten into the wrong hands and his father had to handle it before the authorities found out what was happening. His mother had also been told to go. For what reason? John had never figured that one out. John just assumed it was for back-up for his father. They were, after all, the Top Two who ran the underground clan together.

When his parents had arrived, they realized it had been an ambush and that the English and American intelligence agencies were both waiting for the two of them. The story continued that his father had surrendered to Mycroft Holmes, who was at the time, the new lead for M16’s domestic affairs, having risen to the ranks at a very young age.

Taking no pity on his parents’ surrender or submission to the intelligence agencies, his father was shot down by Mycroft’s minions after his mother had jumped in front of one of the bullets and his father withdrew his gun and attacked, subsequently getting himself fatally shot in the chest. Jim always finished the story by talking about how he and the back-up arrived right then and opened fire on the officers and agents, killing as many as they could. The result had been a complete bloodbath and media coverage for eons, which allowed Caedis to become even more powerful and feared than they already had been. As John’s father’s second-in-command, Jim Moriarty had taken over the clan. Fueled by anger, that was when John started his rigorous training regiment to become the next leader of Caedis and get revenge on the Mycroft Holmes, which also included his brother Sherlock.

“Do not underestimate Sherlock or his brother for that matter,” Jim warned him, sitting behind his desk twirling his knife idly. “They are not stupid men.”

“Yes, sir,” John acknowledged with a tilt of his head. “I know.” How could he forget? He’d only spent the last ten years obsessing over the Holmes brothers, waiting for the perfect time to strike and enact his revenge for his parents.

Jim appraised him for a moment and John felt the need to squirm like when he was fifteen and beginning his training. “Alright,” Jim said, satisfied with whatever he saw. “There’ll be a car to take you to Baker Street and then drive you back. When you get back here, drop by my office and debrief me about your mission. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now get out of here and finish the deed.” Jim waved him off.

“Oh, don’t worry. I will.” John smirked and grabbed his gun from the table and pocketing it. “I’ve been waiting for this for ten years now.”

\-----

John ran a hand through his blonde hair and inhaled through his nose, letting it out softly through his mouth. This was it. He was going to complete his mission to kill Mycroft Holmes’s brother, Sherlock Holmes. Then he was going to kill Mycroft. He had waited years to be given this assignment (Jim wouldn't let him go without training and previous experience). Flicking the safety on the gun off, he threw open the door to 221 Baker Street and slid into the room, stealth mode on.

The apartment was quiet dark with the exception of one light on by the sofa. No sight of Sherlock Holmes anywhere. Wasn’t he home? Irene had told him Sherlock Holmes was home. He had to be home. Where else could he be? Checking his blind spots, his gun at the ready to shoot, John slipped further into the room and circled it. The place was an absolute mess. Papers, books, and random dishes sat everywhere in unorganized heaps. _Gross_ John though. His rooms were absolutely immaculate. Cleaned with military precision. It was expected of him to make sure he left his living quarters bare and spotless to try and avoid giving other people any hints of his life. It was something that his father had taught him. Keep organized and keep clean.

John wrinkled his nose in disgust as he stepped through the apartment. Avoiding the suspicious jars, bones, and other miscellaneous crap Holmes had littered around his apartment. No one. Where was this guy?

He crept through the apartment silently, checking the kitchen and then the bathroom. He opened closets and cabinets that looked large enough to house a human and probed blankets and areas that could have someone hiding underneath them.

John tightened his grip on the gun as he stalked to the bedroom. This had to be it. There was literally nowhere else this guy could be if he was in the apartment. John pushed the last door open, preparing himself for a scream, gunshots, an assault— anything to signal that Sherlock Holmes was indeed at home.

Still nothing.

The bedroom was as silent, inhibited, and messy as the rest of the apartment. The bed was undone and just as unkempt and there were clothes everywhere. John exhaled through his nose, feeling his fury build. Was this all a joke? Why would Irene send him into Sherlock’s home if he wasn’t even there? He would definitely be speaking to her and Jim when he got back. That was for sure. This wasn’t going to happen again if he could help it.

“You miscalculated.” A voice behind him spoke. John whipped around. Standing behind him was a man. Tall and thin with black curls and bright blue eyes that were narrowed and a smirk triumphantly gloating on John’s mistake.

“You—” John sputtered from shock. Goddamnit. He was a trained and a professional! How could he have missed Sherlock Holmes? This wasn’t the first time he had assassinated someone. How could he have been so careless? He tried to think of what he did wrong that would have allowed Sherlock Holmes to get the better of him.

“I hid in the open window.” Sherlock educated him. “The curtain covered me. You should have checked there first.”

John snarled and aimed the gun at the tall man. The window? No! He had checked that when he first walked in! He swore he did. But now, as he wracked his brain, he realized he made a grave error. He hadn’t checked the curtain, assuming that it was just a closed window behind the curtain. He was just about to pull the trigger when he dropped to the ground, out cold from a hit in the back of the head.  


	2. Meeting the Holmes Brothers

Chapter Two—Meeting the Holmes Brothers

When he woke up and came around, he rubbed his head, taking in his new surroundings. He was in a room. No windows and a door that had a slot at the bottom for food that was bolted shut. It consisted of a bed that he was currently laying on as well as a toilet, and a sink, all standard in a prison cell. But in addition, this cell had a desk as well as a chair as well as a rug over the majority of the room’s floor to hide the cement and muffle his sounds.

John took his fingers and tapped the wall to try and figure out what they were made out of. Probably steel or something as equally hard and thick and most likely reinforced with other hard metals. There was a tiny light bulb hanging from the ceiling—too high for John to reach even if he stood on the furniture.  

John swallowed. He couldn’t believe he had been captured so easily. It was like he’d learned nothing at all during his time in training. He closed his eyes and groaned, upset with himself.

“John, if you ever get captured by the enemy, it is always best to look for an escape route. If there is none, carry this pill with you and take it.” Jim had said to him a few years ago when he went on his first mission. Jim handed him a little blue colored pill. “It will be painless and will happen in less than a minute.” He had been promised all those years ago. John had nodded seriously and put the pill into a safe compartment of his jacket in case he was captured when he went out to complete his first mission for a client that wanted to kill her powerful ex-husband for cheating on her with a fourteen year old girl.

Now, as John laid on the bed he realized that his jacket and his shoes had been confiscated before he was put into the cell. A quick search of himself and he realized that, yes, all of this weapons had been confiscated too. John cursed underneath his breath. Not only did he not have the pill to take his life, he had also taken his good knives on this mission. They had been given to him from Jim back when he first started training. John wasn’t exactly sentimental about things, but he certainly felt a pang of sadness wash over him with the thought he wouldn’t ever get to hold the beautiful blades ever again.

A bright pink color caught his eye. There was a note on the desk. Curiously, John roused from the bed and walked the few paces to the desk and chair in his sock feet. It was on a little sticky note with perfect handwriting. John peeled it from the desk and read:

_John._

_I hope you are finding your room comfortable. If you need anything, please just ask the guard outside of the door and we will try our best to accommodate your wishes._

It was unsigned. John crumpled the note. He was still incredibly angry at himself for making such an elementary mistake. And now he was locked in a cell. A luxurious cell, but a cell nonetheless without any chance of escape. And his captors’ generosity was making him even more furious at his situation. He didn’t want to be treated well! He wanted to be treated like crap! He wanted to make sure that he wasn’t getting special treatment from what he was pretty sure was M16.

Great, just great. They were going to ask for his help in taking down Caedis. Well, they could send him right to prison to rot because John was certain he was not going to betray the Watson family legacy. He walked over to the sink and quickly washed his face with the trickle of water that come from the tap, savoring the cool feeling on his face. There wasn’t a towel so John opted for just drying his face on his sleeve.

His stomach was in knots. Jim had told him to be careful and not underestimate the Holmes’s brothers. And John had. John had completely forgotten to check behind the curtain. In retrospect, he could see the flowing velvet curtain looking suspicious against the wall but when he had passed it off as normal. So much for higher assignments from Jim. If John ever got out of here alive, Jim would never give him another assignment worthwhile. He’d be stuck doing petty things like trucking drugs from one person to another or acting security at strip clubs. And that was him being lucky. Anyone else who had fucked up this badly would have simply just been shot and left in the Thames to rot.

But John was special.

Jim had been a close family friend to his father and mother years ago. The three of them had been through thick and thin and when he and Harry had been born, Jim was the obvious person to become their godfather. And when John wanted to start training at fifteen – three years earlier than the normal eighteen years—Jim had gladly agreed and personally trained him himself instead of pushing his training off onto one of his second-in-commands or the different trainers Caedis had. Secretly, John was sure that the only reason why Jim had trained him was because his sister decided to leave the clan family and start her own with someone named Clara she met at the University she had attended. John was positive that Jim wanted to keep the leadership of Caedis within the close family, which meant training him to fullest.

Long mornings of drills, push-ups and work-outs, long days of shooting until he could hit the bulls-eye each time blindfolded and move swiftly and silently through the training halls had him mastering the art of espionage and fight early on. Afterwards, he had moved on to endless readings of the Caedis Code so that he could take over from Jim.

John started from his thoughts with a knock on the door. The door swung open to allow two men to enter. The first was an older, stern looking man in a fresh suit. He smiled when he saw John. John, for his part, narrowed his eyes and hissed. He knew who this man was; he had only studied his face and his brother’s for the past decade: Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

John leapt into fight mode, readying himself for a brawl, his fists up and his muscles tense and ready to spring. It didn’t look difficult, Mycroft Holmes was using an umbrella as a cane and Sherlock didn’t look like he was particular skilled at hand-to-hand combat. The sight of them made him want to strangle them. 

“Hello, John,” Mycroft greeted him, the damned smile still on his face. “Have a good morning so far?”

John said nothing. He wouldn’t give this bastard anything, and that included a conversation.

“I see you think we are a threat,” Mycroft continued, oblivious to John's silence. “I will have to warn you in advance, should you try anything, the guards outside have been told to electrocute you until you lose consciousness. I wouldn’t try any funny business if I were you. Besides, we just want to talk to you, that’s all.”

“What if I don’t want to talk to you?” John said gruffly, lowering his arms and instead opting to cross them defiantly across his chest, glaring at the brothers. Admittedly, he didn’t want to get electrocuted.

“Then I’m afraid you’ll just have to listen as we do the talking.” Mycroft said unapologetically. John raised an eyebrow in challenge. “As of right now we are keeping you detained although as long as you follow the rules and cooperate, I don’t see why your living standards shall change.”

John shifted nervously. Mycroft’s eyes seemed to tear into his soul and read his secrets. It was incredibly unnerving, which was stupid. John shouldn’t be jumpy in front of the Holmes brothers. He had been trained by the very best to show no fear.

“You might enjoy this,” Mycroft said, waving a newspaper with his other hand.

The newspaper was tossed onto the desk and John peered down at the headline. _‘Son of Hamish Watson Captured!’_ John scoffed. The media was disgusting. The article vilified him as someone who did atrocious things, while citing what his mother and father had done to keep the clan and underground strong. John quickly skimmed the first page where is discussed what the media thought he had done (sex trafficking, kidnapping, planting a bomb in Buckingham Palace, and the list went on), not knowing he had done none of those acts. He had left all those little petty things for other members of the Caedis Clan. John himself had focused on being an assassin, more specifically, he was Jim’s assassin.

“Why are you here?” John interrupted, rudely, looking up at him furiously. “I want a lawyer. Before I speak with you.”

“You aren’t going to get one,” Mycroft stated. “You’re a dangerous, notorious criminal. You don’t get a lawyer or any of the usual elements of the judicial process. You’re my prisoner given to me to do as I please with you.”

“Excuse me?” John sputtered, not sure he was hearing correctly. He had never heard of this happening before. Everyone in Caedis he knew that had gotten caught had been put through the system and went through a trail. John seethed. But of course. He was a Watson. They wouldn’t even think about letting him weasel out the back door of the system.

“Until we are certain you have no use for us anymore, that is,” Mycroft confirmed. “We have contacted Moriarty and his network. We want to use you as leverage to get back four of our spies whose covers were blown back. And what better bargaining chip than you? The son of Hamish Watson, Jim Moriarty’s godson.” John rolled his eyes.

“He’ll never agree to that,” John sneered. “You’ll never get the trade so let’s just fast forward. Get me a lawyer.”

“Won’t he?” Mycroft smiled like a shark. “We shall see about that. We have given him two months, sixty days to be exact, to figure out if he wants to trade you for our agents. But you’re probably right. Moriarty won’t follow through with the trade. On the off chance he doesn’t then we will put you through the trail and judge and jury and see the outcomes. You will come out guilty and then spend the rest of your days in prison. In a tiny, dark cell. And since you’re a high class prisoner, you will be alone.”

John shivered to himself. If there was one thing he didn’t like, it was being enclosed in small spaces like a cell. Even being in this cell was starting to make him go crazy.

“Unless you help us.” Sherlock spoke for the first time.

“Why the fuck would I help you?” John snarled, enraged at the prospect of helping his parents’ killer. “You’re both complete imbeciles if you think I will help you.”

“Because you dislike murder and killing and what the clan does.” Sherlock said simply. “I can see it in your eyes. You dislike it all—”

“I’m a Watson!” John snapped. “I’ve grown up with it all. I could kill you right now.”

“But you won’t. So, here’s the deal, John. We need to take down Moriarty’s network and we need your help to do so.” Mycroft began. “In return, we will forgive your past transgressions, which include your six manslaughters and murders we have on record.”

“You must be dumber than fucking rocks,” John jeered. “I’d rather go to prison.”

“Don’t lie to us, John,” Mycroft said derisively. “You know you’d rather die before you go to prison.”

John didn’t blink. “I’m not helping you.”

“I see,” Mycroft lifted his umbrella. “Well, I hope for your sake, that the trade is approved. Otherwise, we will move you into maximum security prison where you’ll spend the rest of your days.”

“We shall take our leave now,” Mycroft said, oozing with fake graciousness and politeness John knew he didn’t really possess. With that, both Sherlock and Mycroft exited the cell, the guard slamming it shut when they left.

For a few minutes, John stood trying to catch his breath and his temper. He wanted to stomp his foot or throw something at Mycroft. Maybe deliver a punch to his smug face. He seriously could not have hated Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes more than he did right then. He was warping the laws so that John would be screwed. But he also felt a pit grow in his stomach. Jim wouldn’t accept the trade. He would never even think about working with M16 or helping them and that included trading with them. That meant that John was going to die in prison. He was nervous to admit it, but it was true. Struggling to regain control of his trembling body, John laid down on the bed and tried to close his eyes. Sixty days. Sixty days before was removed from this luxury cell and thrown into literal hell.

_Come on, Jim._ John prayed, knowing it was a lost cause. _Please get me out of here._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-ed

Chapter Three— Background Motivations

“Did you see that?” Sherlock asked when the door to the cell was closed and John couldn’t hear them.

“I did.” Mycroft confirmed. “He lacks the dull eyes that the rest of Caedis has.” Mycroft paused and glanced at his younger brother. “I had my suspicions. John Watson is very unlike his parents. This meeting proved it. I have a mission for you.”

“Make friends with John Watson?” Sherlock suggested. “Predictable.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “But advantageous. He’d get you into Caedis and closer to Moriarty. Which means I will get closer to Moriarty.”

Sherlock remained silent. He didn’t want to respond to his brother and his knowledge of his recent cases with Lestrade. But recently some of the murders that Sherlock had been consulting with had been ones that all seemed to trace back to Moriarty.

“Do it and I will get you an authorized pass into that laboratory—Baskerville was it?”

Sherlock’s ears perked at his brother’s offer. Mycroft sure knew how and when to dangle carrots in front of people instead of sticks. Sherlock pretended to think the decision over. But he took the bait because he’d been interested in Baskerville for so long and hadn’t yet been able to get in.

“Done,” Sherlock said. “But on the condition that you don’t drop by my flat unannounced anymore.”

\-----

Jim Moriarty smirked with delight and the news that John Watson had been captured by M16 and was currently holding him for ransom! The messenger quietly placed the piece of paper containing the information for the trade on the desk in front of Jim.

“That is all,” Jim intoned. “Get my driver ready. I want to pay a visit somewhere.”

Jim reached for the piece of paper addressed to him from Mycroft Holmes that had been left for him. He skimmed the note over himself. They were giving him two months to decide on the trade for John and the spies that Jim had kept in the underground. He was reluctant to kill the spies mostly because they could be used as leverage for when he wanted something done. The Holmes brothers were constantly getting in the way of his plans. And ever since Mycroft’s brother Sherlock entered the picture, keeping Caedis operations anonymous or secretive were becoming more and more difficult. _Consulting detective_. That’s what he called himself. So Jim had allowed the four captives to live so that he would have some power if either brother ever needed anything from him or Caedis.

This was not one of those cases.

For ten years Jim had silently hid his true feelings for John Watson and his sister from them. He had pretended to be the mentor, the stand-in-dad that the two no longer had. It wasn’t that Jim hated the kids, but the kids were Watsons. He’d wanted to kill the whole Watson family but he was aware that would look incredibly suspicious to the rest of the clan. He couldn’t have the clan suspicious of him. That could create a coup in the ranks. So he’d settled for just taking out the Hamish and Mary Watson and letting the offspring survive.

It wasn’t all that bad of a choice either. Harry had wanted nothing to do with Caedis and had left completely. And John. John had become quite the asset to Jim. He’d be trained specifically to Jim’s needs. A special kind of guard dog, if you will. Trained to kill and bite whenever was necessary. Trained to follow orders like a soldier. If someone pissed Jim off, he could always send John after them to kill them. It was glorious. Unknown to John, he’d gotten quite a bit of a reputation in Caedis for being the one who killed on Jim’s orders. However, all of John’s kills had been Caedis members who had either backstabbed or betrayed Jim at one point of time.

Now, however, was a different story. John had gotten himself captured. And while he hadn’t managed to take out Mycroft Holmes or Sherlock Holmes (both enormous thorns in Jim’s plans), John was now slated to be kept in the prison system for the rest of his life. Too perfect. This was even better than killing the runt because then Jim didn’t have to cover up any murder or lie to any of his associates or clients. _Nice one, John._ Jim grinned. It would be difficult getting a new guard dog as loyal and naïve as John but Jim was certain John could be replaced rather easily and rather quickly.

“Sir, the car is here,” Sebastian said, poking his head into the office. Jim folded the letter into three parts and then put it into the top drawer of the desk. He straightened his tie and then followed Sebastian out of the room and to the bulletproof, sleek car that awaited him outside of the building.

When Jim gave the driver the address of where he wanted to go. The car began to move and allowed Jim to think, the quiet hum of the engine the only thing he could hear.

It had been eleven years ago when Hamish Watson had cheated him and betrayed him. Jim had successfully trafficked the two hundred forty-nine men, women, and children into Bangladesh for one of their clients, some big company wanted them for some reason. Jim remembered her face clearly. She was pale and ordinary, but Jim had thought her to be unique and special. He remembered her brown hair and eyes. She was a mousy little thing but Jim didn’t care.

“Molly,” she had said so quietly Jim had to strain to hear. “My name is Molly.”

She was sweet and he had fallen for her. Completely head over heels for this fragile human, he couldn’t bring himself to add her into the group of people who were sent into Bangladesh. Her innocence and large eyes and stopped him. Instead he had brought her back to headquarters with him and barged into Hamish’s office.

His best friend narrowed his eyes, looking up from the paperwork in alarm at the additional person. “Jim. What’s going on?”

“She’s not going,” Jim had told his former best friend. There was a silence so deafening that Jim could hear his own heartbeat. Hamish’s mouth twisted into a nasty snarl.

“What do you mean?” Hamish demanded. “She has to go or else the order will not be complete.”

“I’m not sending her,” Jim argued, putting himself between Molly and Hamish. “She’s—”

“She’s part of a collection that our client wanted,” Hamish interrupted angrily. He slammed his fist down on the table so hard it tipped the class of scotch he had been drinking. The liquid seeped into the rug beneath their feet as their silence stretched on.

“She’s not going,” Jim reiterated. “I am not letting her go.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Hamish sneered derisively. “You won’t ‘let’ her go? That’s not up to you.”

“Find someone else.” Jim hissed.

“You know better than I that is not a possibility.” Hamish grabbed a piece of paper and waved in front of Jim’s face. “This is the contract, Jim. If we break it our credibility will be damaged. I’m not doing that. Send her now. She’s on the list and so she goes.”

Jim’s feet widened and he crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. “No.”

“Moriarty, if she’s not on that boat in three hours when it’s supposed to leave the bay, I will personally kill her.”

And that’s what Hamish did. Jim still seethed about it, his heart aching every single time he thought about it. Even eleven years later his grudge against his best friend remained. He’d waited a few months before killing her, but he’d managed to add poison to her drink and kill her. His little Molly mouse. Dead within a few hours. When Jim had confronted Hamish about it, all his friend had to say was, “I told you I would do it.”

The car stopped and Jim got out.

Jim raised his eyes to the sky where the large arches reached for the entrance to the cemetery. He walked through the grass in thought. He plucked a rose from someone else’s grave and twirled it between his fingers. Flowers. Boring. He continued to walk through the different shapes of graves.

When he reached two graves in particular, he stopped. He glared at the stone on the left for the longest time. He sniffed the flower for show and then spoke. “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it, old friend?” He laughed humorlessly a little over his own joke, running his fingers over the name engraved on the stone: Hamish Watson.

“You killed my Molly. I’ll kill your John.” He patted the headstone, laying the lone flower on the top and walking away.


	4. Getting to Know the Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't have a anyone to look for mistakes so any you see are my own.

Chapter Four—Getting to Know the Enemy

“John,” Sherlock Holmes greeted him, walking into the cell for the first time in seven days since their first meeting.

John ignored the man and glared at the wall, pulling the blanket firmly around his body. He didn’t want anything to do with Sherlock, although, admittedly, he was incredibly bored and currently very, very lonely. He was committed to scowling at the wall until the intruder left – however long that was – his mouth firmly shut and limbs stiff.

He heard a sigh and then the click of metal.

“I have this gun, you see,” Sherlock started, stating the obvious. “The man holding the gun shot another man and the bullet got lodged into his chest. He died shortly after. But two hours later, the same gun was supposedly used on another man and _that_ bullet went straight through him and into the wall behind him. It’s curious, that’s all. What do you think? You’re an expert with guns.”

John heard the trigger of the gun being played with and the sounds of the gun ignited a sort of excitement that John couldn’t contain after being secluded for such a long period of time. He found himself turning over onto his side to get a glance at the gun. It was a .50 caliber handgun. John studied the gun more closely. Smith and Wesson semi-automatic. Oh what a beautiful gun. John couldn’t help but admire the sleekness of it. He reached out to touch it but stopped mid-way snapping out of his trance.

 “The man must’ve known what his was doing if he used that gun – it’s got a kick to it – otherwise he would’ve gotten a broken nose. Not too many people are able to use that gun. It’s big and loud and harder to handle.” John mused out loud. He himself preferred the Desert Eagle for a handgun if given the option. “Which means that someone else is responsible for killing the guy with the bullet lodged in his chest—the first murder— since that gun there would have definitely put a hole through his chest like the second murder.”

Horrified by what he had said, John closed his mouth with an audible _click_. His eyes widened slightly and he looked anywhere other than at Sherlock who wore a large smirk. He crossed his arms, raging inwardly at his words. He flushed, angry at himself for getting carried away. Dammnit! He’d been trained better than that. Never give away information for free! Fuck.

“Well done, John. You’re incredibly perceptive.” Sherlock said, his eyes glinting slightly. John’s stomach swooped when his eyes met his enemy’s. He scolded himself internally for allowing the man’s probing blue eyes affect him in such a way. He tried to focus on what Holmes was saying now but it was becoming so damn difficult knowing those bright eyes were focused on him.  “You’re right. The man who was arrested for using this particular gun was arrested while a woman was found guilty of firing a rifle a little ways down the alley for the first murder.”

John felt his face warm slightly with the praise and he kicked himself mentally for it. He shouldn’t be getting happy about getting praise from a murderer’s brother. Heck, he shouldn’t have even said that. Careless. A voice whispered in his head. You’ve given him too much information.

“Why even ask me if you already knew?” John snapped, anger boiling to the surface. “Why are you even here?”

An emotion flickered in Sherlock’s blue eyes that John couldn’t distinguish. “Because, John. I happen to like having a second opinion. Especially if that second opinion knows exactly what he’s talking about.” With those words, Sherlock tilted his head and pocketed the gun. “So I thank you. You’ve been a tremendous help.”

John stared at the other man, speechless and unable to react properly in time as Sherlock knocked on the door, signaling he was done and then exiting the cell, leaving John as confused more than ever before.

Thought of those blue eyes and those smirking lips swam in his thoughts and furiously, John grabbed the edge of his desk and flipped it. He reached for the chair and flung it on the ground too expelling every emotion and curse word in his vocabulary. Not feeling content with flipping the table and chair, John flung the same table and chair against the wall instead.

He repeated his action over and over until both the chair and the desk held scars from being thrashed against the concrete repeatedly. His breathing calmed and John began to relax. _It’s only because you’ve been here alone for a week._ John told himself. _That’s why you’re finding him mesmerizing._

John replayed the past encounter with Sherlock over and over in his head trying to make sense of it all until he just couldn’t. Groaning, he pushed the memory aside and fell asleep.

\-----

John raised his eyes from the book he was reading and glared at Sherlock who’d taken to joining John in his cell every day now with different questions about different illegal things.

The first time Sherlock had dropped by after the gun experience was three days later with questions regarding different types of drugs and what they looked like and their strength on human health. After a few compliments thrown in his direction, John had reluctantly accepted the little bag Sherlock carried with him and confirmed the substance as heroin. Sherlock quickly left once he’d gotten his answer and John was left alone again in his cell feeling lonelier than ever before.

_Get a grip on yourself, Watson_. He reprimanded himself. He’d spent days far lonelier in the past few years his parents had been dead than he had in the past few days and yet he still couldn’t get over the fact he was craving human contact. Sherlock, unfortunately, gave him that human contact if only for a few minutes and if only to badger him and extract knowledge from him knowing he’d have it since he was so deep within Caedis.

On the third visit, Sherlock dropped by to ask a friendlier question: Where might one travel in the States should vacation time arise? John, only really being familiar with Miami and Chicago due to trades suggested Miami since that was where the beaches were. Sherlock had flashed him a grin and thanked him with that annoying voice of his.

On his fourth visit, Sherlock’s visit was quick, only asking John where might he go if he wanted a good, strong cup of earl grey tea. Surprised at the question, John had answered truthfully, giving away one of his favorite tea shops in his answer. John might have been more mortified by his answer had Sherlock not thanked him profusely and then patted him on the shoulder in farewell.

On the fifth visit, he’d stopped by to ask where one might get a good blowjob on the street. John balked at the question but eventually directed the consulting detective to sixth avenue, far away from almost all of Caedis’s places but still a good enough area for what Sherlock was looking for.

As the weeks passed, John was becoming incredibly dependant on Sherlock’s visits. He’d stare at the door for hours on end hoping it would open and reveal the tall, lithe figure with the mop of black hair and brilliant blue eyes and those stunning lips. John pictured himself with Sherlock, touching Sherlock, caressing Sherlock, _kissing_ Sherlock before shoving those thoughts away.

_Enemies_. John reminded himself constantly every time Sherlock’s face popped into his head. _His brother killed your mum and dad. Don’t even forget_.

Now what did the stupid git want? John had finally gotten some peace and a book. A very boring and plain book about three girls in a village, but something to at least keep him occupied. John opted to ignore the new development standing in the corner of his cell for the page in the book. _Oh look, Jenna’s getting married, didn’t see that one coming._ John griped inside of his head sarcastically.

He flipped some more pages and then put the book down, snapping, “What?” He tried his best to look angry and unaffected by Sherlock’s presence even though he was clearly was. It enraged him even more to see that Sherlock stood calmly and stoically while John battled with his emotions and feelings within. It wasn’t fair.

“John.” Sherlock started carefully. “We didn’t have anything to do with Putney. Mycroft’s goal was to capture your parents. The whole plan was to interrogate them and send a message to the gang.”

John sat speechless. No that couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t be. Jim wouldn’t lie to him. He just wouldn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, let me know what you think. I've never done this before!


End file.
